


Bitter and Cold

by technicallyGodless



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Gen, Right now, Vomiting, and needs to shape his shit up, the man is having a crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallyGodless/pseuds/technicallyGodless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider is a big name in movie making these days, but let me tell you he is one fucked up guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter and Cold

What became of you?

You only wish you could answer that. It’s a simple enough question, you suppose. What drove you to this point, how in the hell did you get by for so long if this has always been welling up inside you? Fuck if you know. 

All you can reply with is an absent shrug, a snide remark of some sort. You don’t care all too much about much these days. Questions from passersby are nothing but irrelevant pieces of dust to you. Granted when a torrent come at a time, your vision is blurred. And you give a rational answer, if only for that moment. They’re overwhelming. They’re hungry dogs, yowling and wheedling for the meat you aren't obligated to share. 

But you do anyways. Your career is at its peak, everybody loves you, what does it matter if you let it slip your grasp on reality is slowly loosening? Mumbling and side-eyeing a single paparazzi isn't going to sully anything for you and you know it. 

She’d call it a cry for help. You know she would have a field day with all the pent-up bullshit constantly pounding in your skull. The thought of actually speaking to her again, about your psyche or no, never ceases to paint a bitter grin on your lips. It’s been far too long to rekindle any hope of having a civil conversation. The fame got to your head at some point, giving you a momentary viewpoint of yourself being useful for something. 

So you ignored her. Put off her calls while you got smashed with producer after producer in questionable clubs, agreeing to things you regret as soon as the slurred “Yeah” gets past your lips. But the woman never faltered, and that’s what gets you the most. Fools you into thinking it really would be encouraged to break the ice that’d formed a veritable glacier between the two of you with a simple returned text, or even a call. You can’t fucking do it, no matter how much either of you may need it. 

You wouldn't be able to bear the guilt when you inevitably met up. The tenseness in her piercing lavender eyes, the way her smile is too tight. She’d laugh and you’d smirk along with her, cracking jokes in ill taste just to see her light up. But it wouldn't be right, because it’d been too long. She’s surely given up on you. And that’s fine. You get it. 

You wave away the thought of her, thinking for the millionth time that maybe, just maybe, if you drink enough, she’ll disappear. Her laugh will be burned out of your thoughts and the copies of her books you pretend not to read will simply dissipate into the nothingness you've drifted into already. 

So you unscrew the Svedka, pour a mix you’d created when you were a teenager. Apple juice and cheap alcohol, dubbed fondly by your young and intoxicated self “Piss.” It was pretty damned accurate too; the taste bit at your throat and almost made you gag when you exhaled through your nose. That could have been due to there being more booze than juice in your solo cup, but so it goes. 

Within a few minutes of downing the horrid mixture your head is fuzzy, things beginning to move differently with every flick of your eyes or tilt of your head. Your stomach burns and it’s not enough.  
The next few hours are filled with more and more alcohol being poured down your throat, everything burning but you don’t care anymore. You’re talking to yourself, slurring apologies to people who aren't there and likely never will be again.

The bottle is nearing half empty and your stomach lurches. You don’t make it to the bathroom, bile and booze pouring from your mouth that burns jut as much coming up as it does going down. It lands mainly in the sink, for which you are grateful as you shiver with hands bracing you on either side of the sink. It goes on for another minute or so, you’re gagging with disgust at the taste and in yourself. Finally though, you believe you’re safe enough to shakily right yourself and rinse out the sink. 

You’re hobbling to the bathroom now, everything spinning in ways that aren’t nice and comforting anymore. The lights flick on haphazardly when your hand slams at the wall for them desperately, mistake realized too late. They’re bright, you don’t know when your shades were shucked but your brain begs for the shield once more. You don’t have the time or mental capacity to feel around for them anymore, so you just squint and scrabble with the knobs to the bathroom sink. 

Lukewarm water sloshes out, your hands thrust under the stream and splash it up onto your face. It gets everywhere but you can’t really care, you just want the taste out of your mouth and the spit off your chin. So you rinse your skin and mouth with limited motor skills, water spilling to the floor and onto your dress shirt. Not that a little water’d hurt it, the damn thing is sweaty and smells of booze and failure. 

You rub your face, look into the mirror with woozy eyes. You’ve half a mind to punch the mirror and only a quarter of one functioning, so that’s what you do. Your fist hits hard, thick glass but you barely feel it. Your knuckles are dripping blood and a few small shards are sticking into the skin persistently. Regarding them passively, all you really do is shake your hand out. Get a little feeling back into it. You’ll clean this all up tomorrow. 

For then you turn on your heel, deciding bed will be a good idea. You won’t sleep, but it’s safest to be there and fuck you’re falling. You realize too late the water on the floor may serve as a hazard, and you’re hitting the ground hard before you know to brace yourself. Your forehead bashes the lip of the sink, a shock of pain almost enough to sober you up shooting through you. It’s bleeding right away and you don’t know what to fucking do with yourself. 

You know the basics, you’re not a complete idiot. Three panicked grabs to the air later your fingers find purchase on a towel and you yank, finally getting it off the hook and into your hands. It’s a light color, sure to be ruined forever by the blood, but you can’t care, You just press it to the wound, hissing through your teeth at the very concentrated stinging in your forehead and hand. 

There’s blood on the floor mixed with the water, it looks like a little village of elves was brutally slaughtered here by some sort of ice monster. The thought kind of makes you chuckle, but that was a mistake. Your head pounds and you groan in pain, drawing your knees up to curl in on yourself on the cold tile of your bathroom. Your skin buzzes, everything pounds with the pulse of the gash in your head. That’s going to need stitches, you’re going to have to explain this in a few minutes when you call someone to came get your sorry ass off the ground. 

For now you just writhe in on yourself, a bitter smile of self-loathing making itself present. The tears had to have started recently, you don’t remember having begun. But they come down hard and heavy, jaw set tight as you wail silently. No sound comes out but a few angry rasps, maybe a gasp from suddenly increased pain. 

This must be what the other fame-ridden bastards refer to as rock bottom. You’re curled in a ball on the floor, almost black-out drunk, dripping with anger and blood, and your mouth tastes of bitter, sharp bile. It really couldn’t get any worse, you realize. Maybe you’ll pass out here before someone arrives, maybe by some stroke of luck you’ll fall and cause the gash to begin bleeding with a new fervor. Maybe you have real brain damage and you’ll croak before the sun rises. The worst part is, you don’t think you’d mind.

What became of you?


End file.
